The Age of Despair
by Iota
Summary: Woo... Uh, generally similar to "A Tale of Two Cities." There will be much death and destruction later, let me assure you...


Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing and/or anything - quotes, plot lines, Sydney Carton - from 'A Tale of Two Cities.' (That's an actual book for any of you losers with the typical teenage must-not-read-for-fear-of-learning-something-useful, the can't-read-because-i-might-actually-like-to, or the that's-stupid-because-I'm-too-lazy-to-give-it-thought complex.)

A/N: I took MANY liberties with the general plot line of "A Tale of Two Cities," so in reality, it's not even close to the real thing. However, it's written similarily, and has the same idea to it, so you shouldn't be too disappointed. claps I never knew I could do it! Oh, give me reviews, let me know what you think, etc... (Else I'll toast your body and feed it to my mantacor. glareglare)

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Chapter One: Hundreds of Years Later, These Words Still Ring True

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_"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct to Hell."_

_-_

The year was AC 120. The threat of colonies plummeting to Earth was over, the armies moved back to Earth and were disbanded, and umemployment hit an all-time high. The politicians preached prosperity, peace, and hope while theives and murderers swarmed Earth and more organized crime raged on the colonies. Another Revolution was at hand, and the Earth Sphere awaited Death with hands covering her open eyes. She peeked out between her fingers.

ESUN (Earth Sphere United Nations) broke quickly; at the beginning of the year, on its fifth aniversary, the organization cracked between the tensions and crumbled into politcal turmoil. It broke into ENU, Earth's Nations United, and LOCS, Leage of Colonies in Space. The leaders of these new confederacies stood with straight backs, smug faces, and hard eyes as they faced their subjects, who began to hide behind whatever they could. Cloaks regained popularity and trenchcoats were rampant due to the space for weapons, hats and scarves hid the faces of both the guilty and the innocent, glasses sheilded their eyes from the eminent, and the collars of their coats sheilded them from the cold world, which seemed to be headed opposite the Greenhouse effect.

The victims of this society are the subjects of this story.

Surprisingly enough, a train carried the first person with whom this story has business. All flights having been cancelled on Earth and between Earth and the Colonies, only trains were left for relatively fast long-distance travel. Unless one wanted to face the dreaded toll-booths on the highway. He sat low in his chair, the collar of his black trenchcoat flipped up to hide the lower sides of his face, the front of which was buried in a copy of Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities." Dark brown hair spilled messily over his forehead, but otherwise, one could find nothing distinguishable about him. The other passengers in the car were about as noticable, and none could distinguish one from the other. They were all strangers, and all sat in silence and suspicion.

Rain beat down heavily, fogging up the windows and making the cars seem even more closed spaces than they were. The thick, shaky feeling of fear and suspicion hung heavily in the air, and even the sleeping passengers weren't actually asleep for fear the person next to them would rob them of their baggage.

Oddly, the train slowed to a halt. A man in uniform - a blue, button-up jacket, blue slacks, a blue hat, and shiny black shoes - walked down the aisle between rows of suddenly curious, mostly suspicious passengers. He stopped in the center of the car and looked around. "Is there a Mr. Lowe in here?" he asked. The silence in the car grew as passengers glanced accusingly at one another.

The young man with the book looked up slowly, and his Prussian blue eyes flashed. "That would be me," he said. No emotion tainted his voice.

"There's a man in the front that would like to speak with you," the man in uniform replied, turning on his heel and heading in the direction from which he came. "If you would follow me," he said.

Heero closed his book, shoved it in his pocket, and stepped over his neighboring passengers. He kept his head down, looking at the floor as if it held the answer to the universe within that dirt-covered carpet, and no one could see his face beneath his wild bangs. The first car was nothing but cargo, suitcases mostly, but a young man was seated upon one of the larger suitcases. He busied himself by wringing out his long hair and watching the water drip to the floor. "Maxwell," "Mr. Lowe" growled.

Duo Maxwell looked up with a sheepish grin. "Yo. I got a letter here," He pulled open his black cloak and searched through it. "Ah, here it is!" He pulled it from a pocket and tossed it to "Mr. Lowe," who was more commonly known by the name "Heero Yuy."

Heero stepped away from the guard and opened the letter. He read it out loud. "Wait at Dover for Mam'selle." He looked at the other young man and tossed the letter back. "Answer with 'RECALLED TO LIFE.'" He nodded to the uniformed man and headed back to his assigned car.

"But -" Duo tugged at his long, braided brown hair. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't matter - it will be understood."

"A'ight, but . . ." Duo shrugged, opened the outside door of the car, and hopped lightly out of the train. He swung his leg over his motorcycle, and waved enthusiastically as he watched the train pass. "Damn," he said as it disappeared in the rain, "He never ceases to amaze me."

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_"A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other."_

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Despite the fact that there were nearly forty people confined in the train car, they knew as much of each other as they would if each of them were in separate cars.

Duo rode back with the message at a leisurely pace, stopping on occasion to take in scenery or to brush his wet bangs from his face. More than once, he stopped at a bar or tavern for a drink, but pulled his hat down low to hide his eyes, and remained apart from anyone else. "No, way..." He muttered to himself as he rode on, the motorcycle splashing mud and water in all directions, "He's insane! He's always been insane, but... 'Recalled to life?' What the Hell is that about? I'll be damned if that becomes a popular pasttime..."

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So, uh... Charles Dickens fans/haters, please don't kill me... I _like_ this writing style. Anyway, let me know if you like it, so I'll know if I should bother continuing it. This has been sitting on my desktop for months; I've been too scared to post it. Love me, world! 


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